


like fire in my veins

by blainedarling



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Clueless hot boys, M/M, One Direction Tours, Pining, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 15:56:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3387662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blainedarling/pseuds/blainedarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn must know how Harry wants him, and that's what gets to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like fire in my veins

As Harry’s eyes catch on where Zayn sits, perched neatly on the edge of the stool, despite his long, almost gangly legs sprawled over the sides, he tries to pinpoint exactly when it came to this.

He’s always known Zayn is attractive – he’s not blind, nor so self-absorbed to not be able to admit that. But he’s acknowledged this in a subjective, passive kind of way. Not with intent or purpose, but rather a simple: yes, Zayn Malik  _is_ impossibly beautiful.

He was beautiful the first day they met, with his large brown eyes and slightly rounded cheeks, all left feet and few words to anyone. He was beautiful when Harry first saw him crack a real, genuine smile, that stretched out across his face, the pink tip of his tongue peeking out from between his teeth. He was beautiful when he put that ridiculous blond streak through the front of his hair, and he was beautiful when Harry watched as his skin became more and more hidden by the art swirling up his arms and over his chest. He was beautiful when he grew his hair out, endless days of watching Zayn tug his fingers through it absentmindedly from photo shoot to show to interview.

Zayn was beautiful the day he arrived at the hotel in Sydney, fresh off his flight with his hair stuffed under a snapback and his jawline rough from nearly a full day of traveling. And then–

And then.  _That’s_  when. When Zayn wandered through into Harry’s room sometime later, having had a quick nap before they had to head into the stadium to rehearse. He’d showered, his hair damp and sending a few idle drops of water slipping down over the curve of his neck. His hair, messy, flopped forward in loose waves on one side, the other side shaved practically bare.

Zayn hadn’t lingered or even sat down, just coming to bum a cigarette off Louis who was sprawled out next to Harry on his bed. He’d flicked Harry a grin and a cheesy, exaggerated wink before taking off, with the unlit cigarette propped up behind one ear.

If he’d noticed where Harry had surreptitiously stuffed a pillow over his lap to hide exactly what this new haircut was doing to him, he hadn’t commented. Something Louis more than made up for when the door clicked shut behind Zayn, nudging at him with his bare toes and cackling as Harry flushed harder.

Yes. That was probably when, Harry muses, his fingers tapping idly off his knee as he looks at Zayn. Pushing his hair back from where it has the tendency to flop forward into his eyes, the muscles in his arm shifting beneath the surface of his patterned skin, the now-sleeveless MTV sweatshirt hanging off his wiry frame. He’d walked into Zayn’s room earlier that day to find him carefully slicing the sleeves off with a pair of scissors he’d swiped from wardrobe. So had Caroline – she hadn’t been quite as thrilled by Zayn’s newfound interest in tailoring.

Zayn tips his head around and catches Harry staring, quirking an eyebrow at him. The moment can’t last more than a second before he’s getting up in search of water, but it’s enough to make Harry feel hot under his clothes. He shifts on his own stool, clearing his throat and tucking his hair behind his ear.

Performing always give him this high, this buzz through his veins that makes him want to dance, to run out of the stadium at the end of the show and rush down the quiet, nighttime streets until his lungs burn or his legs give out beneath him. Sometimes that high pulses through him in a different way, his cock aching between his legs by the time they make it back to their hotel or onto the bus and he has to quickly excuse himself to the nearest bathroom to slip a hand under his waistband and get himself off, fast and heavy and perfect.

Harry scratches at his thigh, his fingers twitching and antsy. That heat is there, his stomach twisting up in knots. But he doesn’t think it’ll be enough, tonight – a quick release, just to ease the pressure. He wants  _more._

He looks at Zayn, the lights shining against his skin and highlighting the drops of sweat at the nape of his neck.

Yes, Harry wants more. He wants Zayn.

Maybe he always has, has always felt this need to be close to him in a way that is more intense than with the other boys. To touch him, to feel the heat of his skin or pick up the hints of his cologne and something inherently  _Zayn_ , that linger most prominently in the crook of his neck. Harry’s favorite place to tuck his head, which he doubts is coincidence or accident on his part.

Zayn has never discouraged him, as eager to curl into him at the end of a long day as Harry is. Brushes of his hand down his spine, as far as his lower back. Lower, often, a cheeky squeeze of his bum before he’s gone, a smirk lingering on his lips.

Harry can see Liam looking at him out of the corner of his eye as they shift into the next song. _You okay?_  Harry gives him a discreet nod, plastering a smile onto his face even though, suddenly, he finds he’s angry. He’s  _furious._

Zayn knows. Zayn knows how he looks, the drag and pull he can over people in a heartbeat. Have them aching for him, desperate for just a moment of his attention or a touch of his hand. To hear his voice lilt over the word  _babe_ , and know it was directed at them. He does it both consciously and unconsciously – but Harry is positive, that when it comes to him? It’s intentional.

Harry moves on autopilot for the rest of the show, bounding around with the kind of relentless energy he is known for, the fire only growing beneath his skin. He tries not to look at Zayn, but he is shining upon the stage and Harry is hooked, addicted to watching him glow.

It’s only when the lights go down for the final time, though, that Harry lets himself focus his full force onto Zayn. He hands his mic to one of the sound crew on his way offstage, grabbing the spare hair tie from around his wrist and pulling his hair up into a bun.

One minute Zayn is a foot ahead of him, stretching out the kinks in his back and the next Harry is yanking him into a supply closet _en route_  to the green room. Zayn lets out a noise of surprise that Harry knocks out of him by pinning him against the door as it closes.

“Haz?” Zayn huffs out a laugh.

“Shut  _up_ ,” Harry hisses – two words Zayn may never have heard before given his ability to speak volumes without often needing to open his mouth. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Zayn hasn’t said another word, but in the darkness of the closet, Harry’s eyes have adjusted enough to see his eyebrow quirk up. There he goes again, saying so much with so little.

Harry is too frustrated to form a response to that, so he does the only thing he can, and slams his lips to Zayn’s. What starts off messy and off-centre, with too much bite, Harry rectifies in a moment or two, softening against him. He fits his lips around Zayn’s lower one, sucking it into his mouth as his hands find his hips, slipping beneath his sweatshirt to feel his bare, heated skin.

“Harry,” Zayn breathes out as Harry pulls back, his head tipping forward as if to chase his lips.  
Harry shushes him again, but it’s less violent this time, hands tiptoeing over to the button on Zayn’s jeans. “Can I-”

 _“Harry! Zayn!”_ They hear an irritable grunt through the door and Zayn’s hand slips into Harry’s.

“Not here,” Zayn whispers, squeezing his hand before tugging open the door, the two of them falling out of the closet. They run, hand in hand, after the rest of the group, footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Zayn drops his hand and moves over to Niall as they head into the van to go back to the hotel, and Harry tries not to let a chill flutter down his spine. Louis shoots him an indiscernible look before moving to sling an arm around his shoulders. He doesn’t ask and Harry doesn’t comment, staring out of the tinted windows in silence on the short drive back. It’s oppressively hot but Harry can’t shake the chill over his limbs, closing his eyes and pressing his face into the glass.

He doesn’t look up until he feels a hand slip over his knee, fingers tracing the inseam of his jeans. Somehow he knows it’s Zayn before he even opens his eyes, the warmth returning to his body. He looks over and although Zayn isn’t looking at him, still in his conversation with Liam and Niall, there’s a smile on his lips that Harry knows is just for him.  _Because_  of him. Just as Zayn knows his touch is helping. Zayn’s always known.

***

The door shuts behind them, Zayn flicking on the lights in his room and shifting on his feet as the two of them look at each other. Harry can’t remember ever feeling nervous in Zayn’s presence like he does now. His hands itch to reach for him, to kiss him until he’s dizzy with it, but his feet feel rooted to the ground.

“Relax, babe,” Zayn murmurs after a beat, a smile slipping over his lips as he crowds Harry into the wall. His mouth falls to Harry’s neck, and he can’t help the whine that leaves his lips, high and needy with it as he tips his head back.

The light beard Zayn’s been sporting tickles at Harry’s pulse point as he dips his head lower, nudging at the collar of his shirt with his nose. Harry moves his hand to thread into Zayn’s hair, tugging at the locks to tilt his face back up. Zayn is smirking and Harry has to stop himself from growling at the expression.

“You did this on purpose,” Harry grunts, walking Zayn backwards towards the bed and knocking him back against it.  
Zayn chuckles, stretching his arms above his head, his back arching off the bed for a moment before he flops down. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Haz.”

Harry doesn’t waste another moment in covering his body with his own, pinning his wrists above his head as he kisses him, hot and dirty, licking into his mouth like he’s been starved for it. Which, he supposes, he has been. Four years of not learning what the inside of Zayn’s mouth tastes like.

Or how it feels to have Zayn’s cock hardening against his thigh where it’s pressed between his splayed legs; Zayn’s hips twitching up into the sensation, probably without even realising he’s doing it. Harry experimentally grinds his thigh down into his crotch and is rewarded with a desperate keening noise.

Zayn’s eyes are blown black as he looks up at Harry, his wrists twitching where they’re constricted by the younger man’s hands. “Wanna feel you,” Zayn mutters, his eyelashes fluttering. “Please. Please, Haz.”

Harry nods shakily, leaning back to tug his shirt off before grappling with his skinny jeans. He swears and tugs at them, wriggling comically on the bed before finally tossing them to the floor with a triumphant yell, his boxer briefs following. Zayn chuckles, propped up on one elbow as he strokes a hand over his cock through his underwear, his jeans open and pushed down as far as his thighs. His sweatshirt has been discarded behind his head, the sleeves a little frayed from Zayn’s alternations.

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry breathes out as he rids Zayn of his jeans. He slaps Zayn’s hand away from himself, sinking down to breath out over the hard length of his cock through his black boxer briefs. He sucks over the curve of it, until his underwear is sticking to Harry’s lips.

“Please,” Zayn repeats in a murmur, tugging a hand into Harry’s hair, pulling it loose from the bun, the hair tie popping somewhere onto the bed. He drags him up into a kiss, one hand fisting his curls as he other shoves his boxer briefs down his legs, kicking them off to the floor.

“Can I put my mouth on you?” Harry asks, licking his lips greedily at the thought. He wants the weight of Zayn against his tongue, to know how he sounds when his cock is hitting the back of Harry’s throat.  
“No.”  
It throws Harry off until Zayn’s legs is wrapping around his back and pulling their hips together.

“Can we–? Just like this,” Zayn whispers, his eyes half lidded as he grinds their cocks together dryly. “Save your beautiful mouth for next time.” He chuckles.

_Next time, next time, next time._

Harry thinks he could get off on the knowledge that there’s going to be a  _next_  time, alone, but he forces himself to focus. He licks up his palm before reaching between them to wrap a hand around their cocks, jerking them together.

Zayn makes a strangled noise, his head tipping back into the pillows. Harry takes advantage of the movement to nip at Zayn’s neck, making new patterns against his skin. Patterns that will fade in a day, maybe less, ready for him to recreate in heated moments that belong to no one but the two of them. Here, together, like this.

Harry thumbs at the tip of Zayn’s cock, spreading precum between them to allow him to go a bit faster, panting as he jerks them fast. Zayn is stuttering out a steady string of curse words, interspersed with Harry’s name, until finally his hips stutter and he comes with a soft cry over their chests.

 _“Zayn,”_  Harry sobs into the crook of his neck, following after him, come smeared into their torsos as he collapses boneless on top of him. Zayn smells like sweat and sex, different from what Harry usually knows when he rests his face in just this position. Zayn’s hand strokes down the curve of his spine, settling on his lower back – and that, Harry knows.

***

Harry doesn’t remember getting cleaned up before passing out but when he awakes, it isn’t to the unpleasant sensation of dried come against his stomach. He blinks his eyes open slowly, noting the sheets draped over them, their ankles tangled together at the other end of the bed. Zayn is awake – which startles Harry somewhat, the boy who has to be physically dragged from his bed on the average day.

“I had to piss,” Zayn explains with a lopsided smile. “And– You looked too beautiful for me to be able to close my eyes again.”

Harry’s cheeks heat at his words and he shuffles closer to be able to kiss his upper lip once, twice. He’s about to suggest room service and maybe taking Zayn up on his promise of  _next time_ , when they hear the sound of someone jiggling at the door handle.

It’s followed up by a pounding on the wood, Louis’ irritated voice coming from the other side. “Since when do you lock–  _Zayn_. Get up. You owe me a cigarette, asshole, and I’m out.” Another thump.

Zayn sighs and rolls his eyes before slipping out from between the sheets. Harry whines in protest and Zayn looks back, biting his lip. He grabs the sheet and throws it up over Harry’s head, his footsteps padding over to the door.

Harry huffs out a breath, the sheet puffing up around his head with the air. He doesn’t know what Zayn’s reservations are about Louis finding Harry in his bed – secrets never last long in this band, anyway – but he keeps still all the same, trying not to breathe too heavily.

He hears footsteps coming back towards the bed, can’t stop the yelp that he gives when a hand slaps his thigh through the sheet playfully.  
“Morning, Hazza, don’t mind me,” Louis chirps.

Harry tugs the sheet halfway down his face and peeps out over the top. Zayn looks a little embarrassed, arms folded over his bare chest, clad only in his underwear. Louis seems unperturbed by the entire situation, rifling through Zayn’s bag for his cigarettes.

“You knew I was here?” Harry asks, glancing between Zayn and Louis.  
“Course I did.” Louis frowns as he turns back around, clamping the cigarette between his lips. “We had bets on how long you’d last until you tried to jump him.” He nods towards Zayn, before shaking his head at Harry. “Couldn’t have lasted  _one_  more day,” he grumbles, heading towards the door.

Zayn and Harry look at one another in silence for a moment. “Did you know?” Harry asks.  
“About the bet?”  
Harry shakes his head, hair scratching softly against the pillow. “About– Me. Wanting. You.”

Zayn smirks. Of course he did. Zayn’s always known.


End file.
